


Lessons in Vision

by missmollyetc



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before is Now and Then comes later, but Isaac has it all under control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in Vision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viennawaits](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=viennawaits).



> Author's Notes: This takes place prior to Isaac's abduction by Eden.
> 
> Disclaimer: I have nothing (apparently, not even my sanity). _Heroes_ is the product of NBC and various production companies, and I make nothing from this while they rake in the millions. In other words? I. Made. It. Up.

_Drip drip drop. Drip drip drop the mouse runs up the clock. The clock strikes one and then she's done. Drip drip drop from the tip of the needle careful, boy, careful can't let it spill too much—_

He's getting ahead of himself. Isaac squeezes his eyes shut, grabs his hair and pulls until his eyes water and he's there, _she's there,_ but it isn't just enough and so Isaac lets go.

_Before._ Isaac is always careful. _Precise._ Impressionism is for punks who can't bear to see what's under their noses, who're afraid to _look_ and not look away, but now…but _Now_\--

Isaac paints within the lines. He deals in sharp images, clearly delineated in broad slashes of black and primary colors, and when he goes outside he can see his paintings as clearly as he can see a tree, because he has _painted_ a tree. He can—he can—he can't—that made _sense._ It did.

He breathes deep, a turpentine tang lingering in the back of his throat, and stands in the middle of his studio because he can. He's perfectly fine. He's got a deadline to reach, but the point is…

The point, the point thepoint_is._ That he paints between the lines—Hell, he _creates_ the lines and he never, never, strays from his vision. His. Vision.

Which used to have a far more pastel meaning than pastel meant outside his head, which _has_ a more pastel meaning everywhere outside his studio when his mind's eye streams crimson and flames pound their way out of his brush. He'd blame the smack, but she loves him—Oh, she loves him and he loves her, his special girl. He loves her powdered _and_ crystallized, either or and any state in between, skittering in his spoon above his own little flame. He loves the smell, the sounds as she bubbles in the blackened bowl, melting to clear liquid, and he loves her when his syringe swallows that liquid up and spits her down Isaac's ecstatic veins. Loves. Her.

His hands creep up over his opposite wrists, climbing up his skin by his fingernails, then he stalls out, suddenly exhausted even if the muscles in his back won't stop dancing to some unheard tune.

He loves her, but now he's loved and lost and he's _tried_ but Isaac forgot in the heady, broiling rush of his Vision. He forgot his deadlines, and his bank accounts, and his dealer with his blonde and their bomb under his brush, screaming out of his canvas. He forgot—and he didn't mean to, no he didn't—but then the rush took him under and rolled him over and Simone was crying and then he'd _promised_ and now…_Now_

He can't see.

He's tried. He's tried, he's tried, _he's tried_ and nothing works. Nothing _comes_, and his paints are drying on his pallet. He pokes the mounds, smearing his fingers in tacky paint, swirling the stuff between his palms until the colors run together and mix, melt into brown--shit brown, like everything he touches.

Isaac wipes his hands on his pants, drawing up from knee to thigh. The paint seeps through the thin cotton of his pants, sticking the fabric to his skin. His hands shake, and he turns up his arms, watching his needle marks dance. Some red and some beige, one thick and white rimmed, they rise and fall with his twitching muscles. He clenches sticky fists and stares hard beyond his canvas, at his table top where his syringe glimmers next to his spoon.

Ants climb under his skin, traveling up the twisting pathways of his veins and biting his nerves. Fire ants, disturb the hive and pay the price.

_Tap taptap tap._ He can see the crystals falling into the bowl of his spoon. They skitter and bounce off each other. He holds his arm still and his hand follows suit. This is where he is, in his loft, on his table, the sun shines around his canvas and glimmers on his palate and _this is where he is._

No it isn't. Because he can't see her.

He can't see the _girl_. Oh, he can see _his_ girl—the one who's not anymore—not _yet._ He saw her very, very well. He has Simone, black and smooth and beautiful beneath her red umbrella (blue is the color of cuckolds) but he can't see the Girl. The Blonde. The Cheerleader.

He's catching glimpses, smaller and smaller as his talents work their way out of his system, a kicking leg or the tease of a pleated, crimson skirt. Sometimes a creamy sweater below a wide, terrified eye, but he can't see all of her. Not even up close—not the way he _needs_ to, and oh God, he needs…he needs—He--_His_\--

Isaac fumbles for his widest brush, stiff horsehair slipping out of his reach and the wooden handle clattering to the floor. He settles for a medium-sized synthetic instead, but his arm spasms and the bristles smash into the tacky paint, veering from the black to the yellow and off the pallet. He kicks over his paint stand and falls back, throwing his arms out for balance.

The floor meets him halfway, rising up to smack his ass and knock him into the table. He leans his head back on a table leg and scrapes air into his lungs. The lamps clipped to his easel are blinding. His canvas is as blank as his veins are clear and he knows—he _knows_\--he's promised. He _had_ promised. Before. Before _Now_ which is not _Then_ but it can be, it _has to be_ because he's tried, but the Girl's stubborn and he's seen enough of Simone for tonight. He looks toward the underside of the table, into the corner where he _knows_ his syringe and his smack are waiting for him. He's got his lighter in his pocket for just such an occasion.

Isaac scratches his arm, digging in until he can feel the skin giving way to his nails and re-wetting the tips of his fingers. _Now_ he's in the mood for a sure thing. He's in the mood for his steady-going girl, _his_ sure thing. His spoon and his lighter, his little bit of plastic tubing and silver bullet syringe. They've brought him in, raised him up and when he's up then he can—he _can_ paint Simone in his studio, paint the cheerleader—

Paint the world.


End file.
